


Strikhedonia

by ahrent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, Harry Has Long Hair, In my world Harry would never be an auror, M/M, hogwartshousesnet mini bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 23:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11977704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahrent/pseuds/ahrent
Summary: Strikhedonia, or: the pleasure of being able to say "to hell with it"Rita Skeeter’s boost back to fame is in single handle credit to Harry Potter, seemingly on a whim and to the great confusion to those who believe they know him, deciding to up and leave auror training to serve tea and biscuits at Teas and Coffees, Lunar Cycles and Toffees.





	Strikhedonia

**Author's Note:**

> Paired together with wonderful artist ishasal.tumblr.com

Rita Skeeter’s boost back to fame is in single handle credit to Harry Potter, seemingly on a whim and to the great confusion to those who believe they know him, deciding to up and leave auror training to serve tea and biscuits at _Teas and Coffees, Lunar Cycles and Toffees:_ The café huddled in the improbably small space between Monsieur de Garmeaux’s _Robes for the Best Occassions_ (look your best you, for eligible young witches and wizards of the highest caliber) and _Something Else_ (knick-knacks and trinkets for the artful mind).

It has a bedazzled sign out front and strange creatures made of foam hovering in the windows, greeting customers excitedly, and it’s exactly the kind of place you would not except to find anyone who’s ever stepped foot inside a ministry training facility. It is, however, where one can except to find, between the hours of ten thirty am and seven pm, Harry Potter.

Rita Skeeter’s exclusive, concisely named ’From War Hero to Bean Grinder? Is this latest career move a sign of once again dwindling mental health, or is there a more sinister secret hidden inside the cupcake? What’s next for _the Boy who Served_ ’, caused quite an uproar when it first appeared on the front page of the _Prophet_. The subsequent seven page spread of photographs even more so. 

Even with long hair and new glasses, on photographs taken through at least one window, Harry is unmistakable. Despite the arguably innocent contents of the photographs, (Harry leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, throwing his head back and laughing; handing a pastry to a small child; licking frosting off of a cupcake) they are the talk of the town and as present as a dinner guest in most wizarding homes. Especially that last one.

Unfortunately, they also inspire other magazines to reruns of articles of the _sexiest wizard alive_ -caliber, that had been so popular right after the war.

The boost in sales for the little café was appreciated, the compromised work environment and badly disguised stalking less so.

Thankfully Rita Skeeter’s second serving of limelight does not last long. Shortly after the release of the _Exclusive_ , a small note can be found at the very back of that day’s _Prophet_ , simply stating that due to personal reasons Miss Skeeter would be retiring from journalism. Indefinitely. Whether or not Hermione Granger had anything to do with this decision, the newspaper does not say.

So, while the fame of the photographs grows into epic proportions, the actual words of the _Exclusive_ fall into oblivion. For almost everyone.

”While his order of Merlin First Class sits collecting dust,” Ginny reads dramatically, ”the boy hero has decided to abandon serving our community, to instead _serve our community_.”

”Stop,” Harry says.

”Those surprisingly muscled arms–” she almost slips off the counter trying to block Harry from grabbing the paper and tries again, ” _surprisingly muscled_ arms can be seen in local (and perhaps _loca_ ) coffee shop _teas and coffees, lunar cycles and toffees_ grinding beans instead of grinding bad guys–”

”I will literally give you my liver if you stop.”

”What do I want with your liver,” Ginny laughs, ”when I get ’the ruggedly handsome, but according to several healers specializing in mental health diagnostics severely troubled and possibly schizophrenic, ex-auror’ every day, right here in front of my eyes,” Ginny puts her foot on his chest and holds the paper above her head. 

”If we sell it in knockturn alley,” Luna muses, meaning his liver, ”we could buy an espresso machine. You’re getting flour on your jeans, Ginny.”

When Ginny checks out her own arse, Harry grabs the paper off her. As he chucks it in the bin he catches a look of the photo where he’s licking the cupcake, and wants to pick it up just so he can toss it again. 

”I do want that espresso machine…” Ginny sighs, and dusts off her jeans but does not get off the counter, ”dad says it makes steamed milk with a wand!”

Luna waves her wand over the counter. The left over flour rises in spirals into the air and disappears in a puff. The counter top tips Ginny on to the floor and then settles back, looking shiny and satisfied.

”Rude,” Ginny says from the floor.

Luna only smiles at her and sticks her wand into her hair, which curls around it protectively and starts sparkling slightly in the candlelight. Harry tried that once, but then it took twenty minutes and substantial hair loss to get it back out and he figures it’s not worth the scalping. Even though it looks really cool.

Ginny gets up and, with a wave of her own wand, has the coffee cups racing through the air from the drying racks to the shelves. They bump into each other and fill the café with happy little clinks, trying to push each other off to get to stand in the front row. Ginny tuts at them but moves on to turning off the fires. When they do manage to push each other off, they never break. They’re too cheerful to break. 

Harry goes to push the chairs back in with a smile on his face. It’s very difficult to worry about the _Prophet_ when Ginny and Luna are discussing what a wand could be if it wasn’t actually a wand, and a small foam unicorn follows him around the room, bringing a scent of pine trees with it. He’s going to be smelling it all night, which he’s completely fine with. It gallops around him, exuding little soap bubbles and giving off a faint popping noise. 

”You don’t think I’m schizophrenic, do you?” He asks it and it vibrates happily. ”Or that I’m secretly smuggling illegal potions in cupcake deliveries?” Regrettably, it doesn’t answer him. 

When the last light is blown out, and the last foam creature has been soothed and convinced that they _will_ indeed return tomorrow and are not abandoning them forever to live out their lives with only teacups and plants for company, the three of them step out into the darkening night.

Winter is coming to London like exhaustion. Ice cling to the lampposts in glittering patterns, throwing yellow light at a sky coloured like burnt toast. Three rows of black footprints, both melted snow and compressed ice, wind after them. Little snowflakes, to small to see in the dusk or feel on skin, go to rest there, shining. 

”Don’t let it bother you, Harry,” Luna says. Her long hair is braiding itself into an intricate up-do around her wand and she’s holding Ginny’s hand. ”You do look smashing in those photographs.”

” _This obscene display of sexual maturity,_ ” Ginny wheezes _._ ” _can only mean_ –” Luna elbows her in the ribs. 

Harry flushes terribly, and tries to look unaffected. ”I don’t know where she gets this shite, it’s like school all over again.” 

”In school you didn’t have _a truly spectacularly unkempt mane of hair, hastily pulled into what Witch Weekly calls the ’man-bun’_ –”

Harry groans and pulls his hat down over his ears, ”that’s it. Tomorrow I’m cutting it off.”

”Double adverbs,” Luna shakes her head, ”not very professional for a writer. Dad would never let it get published.”

” _That’s_ the reason your dad wouldn’t publish it?”

”Well, that, and he respects you.”

”I think,” Ginny grins, her face is flushed, from the cold or from the glee Harry isn’t sure, and she’s got on a Weasley knitted hat with tassels that hang all the way to her waist and swing as she walks, ”it’s her greatest piece since the one where she said you were dating Hermione.”

”Which one of them.” Harry grumbles. ”And do you have a secret copy in a pocket or have you memorized the entire thing?”

”Only the very best bits. Which is most of it.”

”I wonder how long it will snow for,” Luna says, craning her neck to look up at the sky. ”If it snows for three days the gosterlies start infesting places with lots of ceramic.”

”What are those?” Ginny asks, and Harry is grateful for the change of subject.

He finds he doesn’t actually mind the teasing. He’s too cheerful to mind, with the permanent skip Ginny has in her step these days, and Luna looking round cheeked and healthy. It makes his heart ache to look at them.

At the junction Ginny gives him a big hug, like she does every night, and tugs on his bun, which she does at least five times a day. ”Don’t you fucking dare cut that off, Harry Potter,” she hisses at him and tugs again. 

”It would just grow right back out again,” he shrugs and hugs Luna. 

”You have a friend on you back.” She says cheerfully in his ear, which Harry is a little puzzled by. But then she’s saying she’s cold, and they’re heading off, tucked close together and waving at him.

”Cheers,” he calls after them, and apparates home. 

When he hangs up his coat, the little foam unicorn sticks its head out of his hood.

”You have to stop doing this,” he tells it, then goes to clink some glasses together to keep it entertained. 

As is usual it’s happy to follow him back to the café in the the morning, and it’s welcome company as he treads down the street. He can easily fool himself that the eyes following him everywhere he goes are looking at the strange little unicorn buzzing around his head. When the cameras come out, he turns his head the other way and keeps walking. He knows it doesn’t help. He is as recognizable from the back as he is from the front these days, but it makes him feel better.

The street outside of the café is positively packed. Luna is peering out the window with a cup of something, and Ginny is on the stairs with a broom held threateningly in front of her. 

”If you’re here to buy something, please enter in an orderly fashion once we’ve _actually opened_ ,” she glares at them, ”but if you’re just here to gawk at our unfortunately famous employee’s biceps, I _swear_ there are better things you can be doing with your time. I dated him for two years, _believe me_.” 

Which is rude, but also fair. There are a couple of scattered laughs from the back of the group, but no one stops trying to lean around her and get a look.

Then someone notices him, and he apparates to the safe side of the window before they have time to finish raising their hand to point and shout.

”Cheers, Harry,” Luna says and hands him a cup.

Cameras freeze half-way up as everyone turns to look and he’s not there. People shout in confusion, and then renewed excitement when they see he is now _inside_ the café. Ginny starts yelling at them again as they crowd her, and thumps one man’s hat off his head with her broom when he tries to duck under her arm. 

Harry takes a bracing sip and then cracks the door open behind her.

”Ginny!” He hisses over the onslaught of people calling his name and demanding photographs, autographs and, in one case, his shirt. His face burns. ”Save Puffy!”

” _What?”_ she asks, wielding the broom like a broadsword.

” _Puffy_ , I can’t apparate with him, he’s over there,” Harry points to where the foam unicorn is spinning in confused circles around where Harry had stood, making a high pitched noise like air just barely being let out of a balloon. 

Ginny pulls out her wand, which coincidentally makes the crowd startle and back off a little, and accio’s him into her hand. Harry scoops him up and closes the door again. 

”Sorry, little buddy,” he tells it, while it joyfully takes two laps around him and then goes to his friends in the window, who greet him with excited pops. 

”We open in _fifteen minutes_ ,” he hears Ginny yell, ”anyone who isn’t in an _orderly line_ by then can _piss off_.” She slams the door behind her. 

Things calm down a little once they've retreated from the windows into the kitchen. When they actually open the doors and people pile in, it’s once again clear that when it comes down to it, people don’t actually dare to any of the things they shout about. Most shuffle up to the counter with wide, staring eyes, clutching miscellaneous coins. When Harry asks them what they want they, caught off guard, simply point to something without looking away, and then lurk around the door or linger at the tables very poorly pretending they aren’t outright ogling him.

Ginny sighs in frustration but doesn’t kick them out. Except the guy who, when Harry hands him his change, grabs his wrist and and points his wand directly between Harry’s eyes. 

Harry feels one moment of unbridled terror, his skin going cold, his pulse ricocheting, and he desperately tries to pull back. He realises that the man is shouting counter curses at the same time as Ginny smacks him on the top of his head with her broom, and then bodily hauls him out of the café. Her entire face has turned a blotchy, furious red. Before she slams the door in his face, the man calls out that he was ’ _just trying to help, Mr. Potter, sir’_. 

Harry sighs, and pretends that it doesn’t bother him. Swallows down the knot in his throat, growing tighter with every wide eyed look he receives, and pretends all he can. 

Ginny is furious for hours. He tells her it’s fine. He is twitchy for hours. He tells himself it’s fine.

Once people realise they have things like _jobs_ , and can’t stand around staring at Harry all day, the onslaught of customers slow down to the usual trickle of old ladies, neighbouring business owners, and busy shoppers who couldn’t give two owl droppings about Harry bleedin’ Potter.

He’s only just started to relax again, and has his back to the counter. He’s arguing with the cups who don’t feel like being used and are trying to hide at the back, trying to persuade them to do it _please_ and _for him_. This is when he is abruptly catapulted about nine years back in time by a very familiar voice. 

He drops a cup. 

It floats back up onto the shelf, looking like it might not complain next time Harry wants to use it.

He expects to be wrong when he whirls around to stare, but he’s really, really not. 

Malfoy says _’Potter’_ in the exact same way used to do in school, whenever he came upon Harry in some particularly embarrassing or rule breaking situation. It’s a strange concoction of irritation and delight, as if he’s simply overflowing with new ideas for insults and can’t wait to try them out. Harry somewhat thought he’d never hear that tone of voice again.

”What the _fuck_ ,” he says with feeling, and Mrs. Bellbloom quacks indignantly from her usual table.

”Now, really, Potter,” Malfoy says, as if it’s all in it’s order that he’s standing there looking well put together, ”there’s no need to be impolite.”

While his tone hasn’t changed a bit, he certainly has. Malfoy looks–  well, when Harry manages to look past the sneer and the decade of antagonism, he looks _fancy_. Harry is acutely aware of his apron with the coffee stains and his floury hands as Malfoy slowly and delicately pulls off one dragon hide glove at a time and tucks them neatly inside his dark blue and silver threaded coat. He looks around the café.

”I saw the pictures and I couldn’t quite believe it, but I suppose it must be true. Ickle-Potter’s gone round the bend. Serving people coffee, really? Give away your fortune, did you? Is that why you had to join the working classes to pay off your… was it a potions addiction Skeeter said? Or perhaps all the do-gooding in your life has made you believe you are _actually_ a house-elf?”

None of these seem to be actual questions, as he barrels through them with an increasingly pleased look on his face.

Harry catches Ginny’s eyes from across the room. She’s gaping, frozen mid movement with a rag in her hand, which is now trying to tug her towards the table and back to work. At least he’s not hallucinating, but he hasn’t felt this particular itching under his skin in a very long time.

He leans over the counter, swallows the urge to start shouting, and says in a low voice, ”Malfoy, did you seriously come all the way down here just to insult me? Because in that case you can, in my opinion, locate the direction of _off_ and _fuck kindly towards it_.” Mrs. Bellbloom is peering at him with cat-like eyes over her teacup.

Malfoy lights up, ”oh dear, what a tone, might I need to call a manager?”

Harry scowls at him. ”I am the manager.” He wasn’t really, but the lie was worth the half second of scrambling for the next thing to say that he could see in Malfoy’s eyes.

”Well,” he says, ”then this place has truly gone to the dogs. Tell me, were you promoted only to boost sales with thirsty young witches going mad for the ’I’ve-just-been-in-a-fight-with-a-hippogriff’-look?”

Harry’s skin buzzes, ”Which one of us has a history of fighting with hippogriffs? Oh, wait, you never actually did fight Buckbeak. Faint, did you? Had to be carried to the hospital wing? What was it you were moaning? That’s right: _’it’s killed me, it’s killed me’._ ” 

Pink rises quickly up Malfoy’s cheeks, and his mouth pulls into a pinched look that suddenly and violently reminds Harry of Narcissa. 

He does look like his mother, far more than he ever looked like his father, which is a greater relief than Harry would have thought. He wondered if Malfoy thought so too. 

”If you’ll excuse me,” he says haughtily, lifting his chin, ”I have a fitting at Monsieur de Garmeux’s I simply cannot be late to.”

Harry can’t believe he’s about to get the last word, that’s just too good to be true.

”I see you grew a beard. It doesn’t suit you,” Malfoy says, spins around on his heel, and swans right back out the door. Harry groans and puts his forehead on the counter. That’s just not fair, coming after a man’s facial hair like that. It’s not like it was actually a _beard_. When he thinks beard he thinks of Hagrid, or Dumbledore. What he’s got is stubble at most.

Ginny comes up to the counter to pat him on the head a little, ”what in the world did _he_ want?” she asks, and then pokes him in the neck until he stands straight again.

”To insult me for a bit, it seems,” Harry mutters.

”Gosh,” Ginny says, ”Haven’t seen him in ages, I know Luna writes him sometimes but–”

”She does _what?”_

Luna picks that moment to appear from the back with a baker’s dozen of little apple pies floating through the air behind her. She stops and looks between them, ”Was Draco here?” She asks loftily, and starts arranging the pies.

”How’d you know?” Harry grumbles, not as upset as he’s presenting, but he’s had a rough post-article week and his old nemesis just came in to his workplace specifically to wind him up, he’s earned the right to whinge a little.

Luna smiles at him, eyes somewhere not quite at his eyes, ”You’ve got that look,” she says.

Harry and Ginny share a look which is, on Harry’s end, incredulous, and on Ginny’s end, _delighted_. 

”What _look?”_ they both say, in very differing tones.

Luna giggles at them, she usually does. ”Oh, Harry, no one can get a rise out of you like Draco can.”

Ginny clears her throat, ” _while little can be seen of our hero’s famed bouts of violent temper, who knows how far beneath the surface it is lurking, and what will, inevitably, cause the tea kettle to boil over.”_

”Don’t you have practice to get to?” Harry asks her, trying jokingly to push her away from the counter.

Harry helps Luna with the pies. She’s humming something to herself that Harry can’t quite place, but which makes him think of Christmas and hot drinks, and the pies swell, the crust becoming more golden than golden brown, and the scent of hot apples and cinnamon seep willingly into every corner of the café, and through the closed door into the streets.

In five minutes or less, there’s going to be a line.

”You write Draco Malfoy?” Harry asks.

She answers him and somehow doesn’t stop humming the song, ”oh yes, regularly. He’s a very pleasant person.”

Harry scoffs, ”not in my experience.”

He lets it go, because he thinks that will be the end of it. He’s wrong.

The next day around noon Harry walks out from storage and sees Draco Malfoy standing by the counter, peering at the menu on the wall and mouthing the words quietly to himself.

”Oh, _fuck me_ ,” Harry says.

Malfoy turns to him and straightens up. ”Is that on the menu? That would explain the line I saw out there this morning.”

”Fuck off.” Harry puts on a new batch of tea, a little too harshly. The pot snaps it’s lid closed on his fingers in retaliation. 

”Do you speak like this to all your customers?”

”Oh, you’re a customer now?”

Malfoy sniffs, ”clearly.”

”Well then, get on with it.” Harry crosses his arms and leans his hip on the counter with a thud.

Malfoy spends the next six minutes carefully eyes each item in the glass display, stroking his chin occasionally and making humming noises. Harry wants to bang his head against something hard.

At length he says, ”crumplehorned snorcroissant with melted caramel toffee.”

”Coming right up,” Harry says.

”That wasn’t an order, Potter,” Malfoy stops him, ”it was a judgmental remark.”

Harry want’s to bang Malfoy’s head against something hard.

”Who named these things? Was it you, Potter? Only, whoever did must be off their rocker.”

”It was Luna,” Harry glares, hackles rising, skin buzzing with irritation.

Malfoy, astonishingly, lights up, ”Oh, Luna? She is a delight. Barking mad, yes, but I do like her.”

”She mentioned you keep in touch.” Harry isn’t sure how he feels about that. He doesn’t _mind_ , he tells himself. He has no reason to mind. He doesn’t have monopoly over his friends, obviously, they’re allowed to correspond with whomever they please. He does, however, feel really strange that Luna knows more about Malfoy’s life than he does. Why that is, he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

Something must have been in his tone, because Malfoy sniffs indignantly, ”if you must know, she has wonderful opinions on wildlife preservation on the manor grounds, even though some of her creatures do not _technically_ exist. However, you’re certainly one to talk. Don’t think I don’t know you’re sending letters to my mother.” He pinned Harry with a look that made him squirm.

”As it happens, she’s quite nice,” he says, ”those genes must have skipped right over you.”

”Customer service here is terrible,” Malfoy says loudly. A couple at the back look up at them curiously. Harry smiles politely at them, then turns to glare furiously at Malfoy. 

”And you’re doing a terrible impersonation of an actual _customer_ , Malfoy. Are you so used to house elves doing all your shopping for you that you can’t figure out how to place a simple order?”

”I’ll have a green tea,” Malfoy says, as if he hadn’t heard him.

Harry considers not making it for him. But, behind him, the kettle is already pouring. 

Malfoy takes his tea to go, _thank god_ , and pays but does not leave a tip. As he’s on his way out, Harry calls after him, ”you’ve got dirt on your coat!”

He doesn’t really, but watching him frantically check for it and spill tea on his shoes makes Harry laugh for the next two solid minutes. He’s in a great mood for the rest of the day. Not even three people asking for autographs bring him down.

Somehow, it turns into a routine. The strangest routine he’s ever had. Malfoy keeps coming in, once a day, every day but never at the same time. He steps up to the counter, throws a couple of judgmental glances at the room, the other patrons, or whatever strange concoction they’re trying to upsell today, and then poke fun at Harry for a bit. Afterwards, he swans out, brightly coloured coats flapping behind him. He never seems to wear the same one twice. 

Harry can’t figure out why he does it, as he always seems to leave more irritated than he was coming in. They’ve not gotten worse at picking on each other since school, it turns out. Malfoy does his best to insult pretty much every aspect of Harry, and Harry does his damnedest to retaliate. And sure, Malfoy makes his skin prickle with his smug chin and his posh accent, and Harry gets immense satisfaction from wiping that look off of his face but… But, he thinks to himself as he watches Malfoy leave one day, at no point does he feel an inclination to actually wound. Not like he knows he could.

He doesn’t want to bring up Lucius Malfoy. He doesn’t want to call Draco Malfoy a death eater. He wants nothing to do with all that, and what it used to be. 

It’s why he left auror training. It’s why he’s living in a dingy little flat instead of at Grimmauld Place. He’s leaving the war and all the grimy, heavy responsibilities of it behind. As he so eloquently put it when he pulled his auror robes over his head and stalked out of the training room two months ago: ”Fuck it. Fuck it all to hell.”

Without that ammunition the quarreling between him and Malfoy becomes… almost tame in character. 

Ginny is baffled and highly amused when she learns of this new occurrence. She doesn’t technically work there. Although Harry is tempted to hire her as his personal bouncer, she has responsibilities to her team even in the off season. Still, she has made sure, since the article was published, to be in place with her broom every morning, budging people more or less gently away from committing actual crimes. He loves her so much it’s a live thing in his chest.

Sometimes she’s there when Malfoy shows up, but not often. When she is, she hurries to fix herself a cup of something and settles in to watch.

”Your fashion sense is dreadful,” Malfoy tells him on one of these occasions. ”is that a muggle garment you’re wearing, or did your house elf feel so sorry for you he actually gave you his clothes?”

”Very funny, Malfoy,” Harry says, ”Tell me, are you colourblind?”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. Harry can hear Ginny aggressively take a sip from somewhere behind him. ”I assure you, Potter,” Malfoy says, ”everything I’m wearing is of the highest standard and meticulously crafted–” Harry opens his mouth, ”and it _all matches_.” 

Harry hands him a biscuit. ”You look like a peacock.”

He can see Malfoy grind his teeth together. ”Peacocks are majestic animals,” he says.

Ginny, it seems, is sipping either to keep from commenting or to keep from laughing.

”And I, for one, am sure they will welcome you as their supreme overlord,” Harry says. 

Malfoy leaves a little while later, in a huff.

”That,” Ginny says, ”was– well, it was a sight. Seemed like you had fun though.”

Harry shrugs, ”it’s always been fun to wind him up.”

Ginny hums.

He knows what she’s thinking. That he enjoys it too much. The thing is though, he always has to be careful. With what he says, with what he does, with where he goes. Skeeter came out of whatever hole she’d been hiding in for one day, to write one article where she managed to get drug abuse and mental illness from a couple pictures of him at work, and what followed has been so close to harassment he’s actually considered simply staying inside for a decade. He might have, if it hadn’t been for his friends. As soon as he steps outside people are looking at him. They come up to him in the street, wanting to shake his hand, wanting to thank him. Praising him for this thing he did what feels like a lifetime ago that he would rather just forget, thanks. 

Kids yank at their parents and point at him with awe in their faces, his elders feel compelled to recount all the ways in which _they too_ helped in the war, desperate to assuage any remaining survivor’s guilt or, more likely, any nagging feeling that they might not have done much at all except keep their heads down and try to be convincingly pureblood.

People Harry’s age, those he went to school with they– well, they don’t seem to know what to do with him. 

The papers can’t seem to decide whether they want to praise or punish him. Every other week his face is on the pages again, and if he’s dared be less than perfectly amiable and polite, less than a still smile and writing autographs with bile rising in his throat, they don’t hesitate to mark their columns with less than flattering descriptions. 

He thought it would drive him up the wall, having Malfoy come by and ruin his day every day. As it turns out, being unreservedly rude for no other reason than that it’s _fun_ , unfurls the knot in his stomach a little more every day.

Malfoy’s never given a shit what he does, except when it’s something he can make fun of. 

”I can see your growth spurt really did stop in fifth year,” He says one day as he’s opening his wallet, ”you’re still very short.” Harry wants to punch him in the nose. But he also kind of wants to laugh.

”You know, Malfoy, I’m glad you stopped using product in your hair.” Harry muses, ”that wild forest nymph-look really works on you.”

Malfoy gasps and throws a galleon at his face. A couple of minutes later Harry sees him over by the table he’s decided is his, surreptitiously checking his reflection on the back of a spoon. Harry laughs so hard he has to excuse himself.

For the first time, he’s taken his coat off when he sits down, rather than keep it buttoned tightly up to his throat as he drinks his tea and eat his biscuit. It has baffled Harry, and given him plenty of fodder for insults. The one time he said ’hey, Malfoy, you naked under there?’ Malfoy blushed so furiously his face looked like Ron’s hair, and pinched his mouth so tightly shut it was basically negative space.

Now, he sits with his coat draped elegantly over his chair, wearing a crisply pressed white shirt underneath.

It’s difficult to tease someone for wearing a white shirt. Nonetheless Harry manages.

He’s leaner and more long limbed than Harry expected. He looks half as big without the coats on, his collarbones peeking out from under his collar, and elbows sharp-looking. If he was anyone else, Harry thinks, he would be moving in an awkward manner; too much legs and arms not to knock into things. Rather, he was fluid motion down to every inch. A practiced grace. Harry wonders if he was an awkward child, like Harry himself, knobbly knees and falling over a lot. Probably not.

Luna watches from the counter as Malfoy gets up and shrugs his coat on, and Harry hurries to clean up his table. The coat is a deep red this time, and this close Harry can just about make out a swirling pattern which seems to move under the candlelight. 

Malfoy smirks, ”Harry Potter picking up after me,” he drawls as Harry’s balancing things on his tray, ”the day has finally arrived.”

”Yes, well,” Harry says, casually wiping a few crumbs off the table. ”after all that mail you sent me… it’s the least I can do for my _biggest fan_.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitches. ”And how is fan mail working out for you? Any love potions yet this week? I suppose you have full time staff working on sorting them so you don’t miss any.”

Harry rolls his eyes. He does get fan mail. He also turns it all away, unopened. Malfoy does not need to know about his one to many close calls with bewitched and cursed items making it straight through his wards and into his kitchen. 

”Don’t you have to go bully some orphans? That is what you do for a living, isn’t it?” He raises and eyebrow at Malfoy.

”Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. Orphans are much too easy to bully, I prefer some challenge in my life.” With no further notice, he swans out of the door, coat tightly buttoned, making him look stronger than he is.

Luna is smiling at him when he comes back to the counter. A spoon is trying to climb into her sleeve. She doesn’t seem to notice. 

”I’m glad you’re moving on,” she says airily, as if it isn’t a horrifyingly personal thing to say to someone. Luna is like that, mostly. 

”What do you mean,” he says, as if he doesn’t know what she means. 

”Not to long ago, you would have been adamant that he was evil.”

Harry shrugs and fiddles with the dishes on his tray.

”I knew you’d like him if you just gave him a chance.”

Harry laughs, ”I don’t like him, we spend all our time insulting each other.”

She kisses his cheek, says, ”And you and Ginny don’t?” then goes to chat with the customers without waiting for an answer. He watches the spoon fall out of her dress as she walks, and then desperately try to crawl after her. 

Maybe he does like Malfoy. He’s fun to annoy, and it’s somehow, incredibly, fun when Malfoy makes fun of him. It’s not vindictive like when the papers say stuff about him. Mostly because the papers make assumptions and broadcast them to the world as fact, while Malfoy stands and insults him to his face, fully expecting Harry to give at least as much as he gets. Maybe it makes his days just a little better. Maybe he perks up when he walks in, and goes over to say goodbye before he can leave. 

A thought creeps into his head unbidden as he’s putting Malfoy’s cup away. Puffy makes his way over and starts spinning around Harry, who feels the cheeriness drain from him, bit by bit, while the knot in his stomach grows tighter.

He doesn’t know _why_ Malfoy is doing it.

He wonders as he wipes down tables, and starts the dishes, and plays with Puffy, and the nagging, hurtful thought he keeps coming back to is that the only reasons Malfoy could have are selfish ones. After that conclusion, the only definitive answer he can reach is that Malfoy is going to sell him out. 

If he’s here every day, goading and annoying Harry into saying meaner and meaner things to him, how hard will it be to sell evidence of Harry Potter being a massive, rude, arsehole to the papers and turn public opinion against him? Permanently? Not very hard, Harry thinks. 

After all, Malfoy seems to live on making his life difficult. Has all through school, and is still trying. The fact that he’s not succeeding, and is actually making Harry’s days quite a lot better, is likely just a fault in his plan. 

He could throw him out. He could refuse to serve him or, at the very least, refuse to talk to him. He won’t though, he knows that much about himself.

Luna looks worried at his dejected look, but he smiles to reassure her he’s fine. He’s not. He feels betrayed. 

Harry hold this opinion for about another week, during which he tells himself that next time he sees Malfoy, he won’t rise to the bait. Or, at least, he won’t enjoy it. He fails.

He’s standing at opposite sides of the counter from Malfoy one day while he’s considering the pies.

”Just pick apple,” Harry says, ”you like apple, you posh tosser.”

Malfoy hums, ”Yes, you uncultured swine,” There’s no change of tone there, there never is anymore. ”I do like apple, but something tells me I should try the plum. There’s something about the plum, today.”

Luna wafts by with several foam creatures popping happily around her, a spring in her step, ”the plum has chosen you today, Draco,” she sings. 

Harry and Malfoy share a look, which is in itself is absolutely insane when he thinks about it. 

”Alright, you insufferable heathen, one of the plum pies, please.”

”Coming right up, you massive tool,” Harry smiles. The middle aged man standing behind Malfoy looks slightly bewildered, and he feels a little bad for a second. It must be strange to hear him and Malfoy at it. 

There’s sudden movement and a blinding flash and bile, rising in his throat. The camera goes off again, and again. The man holding it isn’t looking bewildered anymore. 

He’d been having such a good morning too.

He just stands there. He tries to blink the flash out of his eyes and wishes Ginny were here.

Malfoy says ”Excuse me, sir,” and plucks the camera out of the man’s hands. The man doesn’t have time to say even a cursory ’what the hell’, before the camera is exploding into black dust under Malfoy’s wand. 

Harry stares at him. Malfoy doesn’t look back, he’s glaring at the man with a cold fury Harry hasn’t seen on his face in a very long time.

”I think it would be best if you leave,” Malfoy says, his voice dangerously low. 

”But I–” the man starts, spluttering and caught off guard.

”Wrong answer,” Malfoy says, and points his wand at him. The man makes a choked noise, turns, and runs. 

Harry continues to stare at Malfoy. The only other two patrons also stare at Malfoy. 

Malfoy clears his throat, and brushes black soot off his sleeves. His eyes are still cold, his mouth set in that pinched look, but pink is slowly rising up his cheeks. ”That,” he says, ”was a very rude man.” He looks to Harry again, carefully arranging his face into something casual. Several quiet moments pass. Harry’s not sure what expression is on his own face, but it makes Malfoy’s eyebrows rise. ”Well?” he says, ”my pie?”

Harry blushes. And gets him his plum pie. Then he gets tea for himself and sits down opposite him. 

”What the hell are you doing, Potter?” Malfoy asks, a piece of pie half way to his mouth. Harry shrugs. 

”Thanks,” he says, and Malfoy blushes again. 

He looks away and clears his throat. ”Yes, well. No need to harp on about it.”

Harry’s pretty sure he’s smiling like a dork. Something is ballooning in his chest. Something like relief, but not quite. Malfoy allows him to sit there, staring, while he eats. Then he asks quietly, ”That happen a lot, does it?”

Harry pulls his hair free and cards his fingers through it. ”it’s pretty much constant. You’ve seen the crowds outside in the morning. Got a lot worse after that article though.”

”It was a horrific piece of journalism.”

”I thought you found it entertaining,” Harry says. 

Malfoy stops sticking crumbs to his fingers and peers up at him through his lashes with one eyebrow raised. Harry is, despite himself and to a frankly disgusting level, charmed. ”Idiots are very entertaining. Why do you think I’m here.”

Harry snorts and untangles a particularly vicious knot in his hair. Malfoy leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes at him, like he’s trying to figure him out.

He takes a quick inhale and says, ”you know, I really thought you’d be an auror by now.” 

Harry is confused, they haven’t spoken this long without insults since– well, ever, he’s pretty sure. And now Malfoy is trying to have an actual conversation. Perhaps he should have expected this when he sat down. 

”Then you don’t know me very well,” Harry says.

”Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy rolls his eyes, ”I know you perfectly well. Enough to know your ridiculous saviour-complex is strong enough to get you through three years of auror training and at least five years of being one before you’d think to stop and realise you hated it.”

Harry’s hand stops mid-movement. Then he starts to laugh. ”To be fair,” he says, ”that could easily have happened. I guess I’m just a little more intuitive than you think.”

Malfoy shrugs and takes a sip of tea, from _Harry’s cup_ , ”We’ve been out of touch a while.”

The ballooning thing in his chest balloons a little more, and later, when he looks back on this, he’ll see is at the turning point it is. ”We have, haven’t we,” he says, mostly to himself. To Malfoy, he says, ”I might have just kept rolling on, doing what people expected me to do. But I was really fucking sick of it.” He pulls his hair into a new, neater bun. It doesn’t stop it from falling into his eyes and tickling his neck. He can see Malfoy eyeing it like he’s happily chop it off. ”Instead, I asked McGonagall if I could have the defense agains the dark arts-position.”

Malfoy gives him an incredulous look, ”you _asked if you could have it?_ Potter, it’s a highly sought after and difficult position, not a bleeding _extra pen_.”

”Well, she said no.”

”I should certainly hope so.”

”Said I could ask again once I’d gotten an actual education. So I’m getting my NEWTs long distance.”

Malfoy nods, looking contemplative and picking at his crumbs again. ”I suppose you’d be quite good at that.” Harry wishes he had a cup, so he could drop it in shock. ”You’ll get along with the students, seeing as you are an actual man-child.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Order has been restored to the world. ”Nice, thanks.” 

Malfoy scowls and gives a frustrated sigh, ”Potter, I’m trying to be nice to you.”

”Are you really?” He asks, grin stretching his lips and heart beating a tad to hard against his chest, ”Cause that hasn’t quite been coming across, you absolute nutter.”

He’s still not meeting Harry’s eyes, but he stops scowling as much. ”Cut your hair,” he mutters, ”you look like a girl.”

”Say that where Luna can hear, I dare you.”

Harry stays until Luna needs help in the kitchen. Which is when Malfoy gets up and leaves. Harry may or may not watch him go, and Luna’s smile may or may now be a little too knowing.

The next day, Ginny has a day off and they’re standing together in the kitchen. Harry is reading a textbook and Ginny is painting her toenails, foot up on the dish rack and tongue between her teeth.

”Do you think Malfoy is attractive?” Harry asks before he can stop himself.

”I’m a lesbian, Harold.” Ginny blows on her nails. ”But yes, he’s got a certain quality about him, if you like tossers.”

”My name’s not Harold,” Harry mutters, and tries to focus on Arsenius Jiggers opinions on non-verbal spells.

”You should go for it,” Ginny says.

”What?”

She shrugs, not looking up, ”Just saying. He’s probably into you. And if you’re gonna snog him, you should probably start calling him _Draco_.”

Harry thinks about that for the rest of the morning, and spills tea on Mrs. Bellbloom. He has to give her a free cookie to get her to stop quacking indignantly. 

He considers it. What the difference might be between _Malfoy_ and _Draco_. Draco Malfoy has always been _Malfoy_ , carrying around the name like a badge of honour, slicked back hair and black robes and a cruel expression on his face. That’s not the man Harry sees every day. The man with the colourful intricate coats that purposefully make him look broader than he is and looks like his mother when he frowns. The man who threatens someone to protect Harry. Who peers at him over the top of his cup and thinks Luna is delightful and gets along with Ginny.

Besides, it’s not like he goes around calling anyone else by their last name, not since school and auror training. 

With Malfoy, with _Draco_ , it would be an intimacy, he realises. In a way it’s not with anyone else. It’s drawing a line, very decisively, between now and then; between what they used to be to each other and– and what they could be.

His heart squeezes tightly in his chest. He makes a decision.

”Draco,” he says out loud, but quietly enough that only Puffy hears. ”I could get used to that, I suppose.” 

Puffy pops loudly right next to his ear, and prances up into his hair. 

”Imagine his face though,” he says, and once he does, it’s definitely decided. 

It’s only two hours to closing time when _Draco_ struts in, wearing an even bigger coat than usual, and Harry immediately turns to Luna.

”Can I close up by myself tonight?” He asks, trying for casual and missing it by about two light years.

Luna grins at him, ”sure, Harry, I’ll finish these dishes and go home early.”

Harry’s grateful she doesn’t actually say anything, and goes up to the counter.

”Evening,” he says, and Draco narrows his eyes at him suspiciously.

”What’s wrong with you, you’re acting weird.”

”I just said hello!” Harry protests.

”Yes, but you’re looking at me weird,” he leans a little closer and peers into Harry’s eyes, as if he’s looking for signs of illness. ”Did you drop a kettle on your head.” Or concussion, apparently.

Harry shrugs, and makes another little decision, ”I’m happy to see you.”

Draco leans back, ”so you did drop a kettle on your head.”

Harry rolls his eyes, ”shove off, Draco,” he says, and Draco looks suddenly and immensely uncomfortable. His face contorts so far into bewilderment and distress Harry starts laughing, and doesn’t stop for several long moments. Mrs. Bellbloom looks disapprovingly at him.

If all else fails, he’ll have that look memorised forever.

Draco doesn’t seem capable of speech, so Harry gets him a cup of tea and nudges it gently into his chest.

”Here you go, Draco, enjoy.”

Draco looks like he wants to rub his fingers in his ears, but he goes, and he sits. He does not stop staring suspiciously at Harry.

Luna finishes the dishes and kisses his cheek before she leaves. He smiles and waves, and tries not to look nervous. His hands and neck are a little clammy. He keeps darting looks over to Draco’s table and finds him looking back. 

He taps his fingers on the counter, waiting for Mrs. Bellbloom to leave. She’s the only patron left besides Draco and it seems like she’s taking ages finishing her tea. He’s worried Draco will finish his first and leave before he gets the chance to– well, he’s not entirely sure what he’s planning to do. He’s planning to do something.

Draco finishes first. But he doesn’t leave. He sits, and looks suspiciously at Harry, until _finally_ , Bellbloom gets up and goes. Harry follows her to the door and switches the sign to closed 45 minutes before actual closing time. Luna will forgive him, this once. 

He walks up to Draco, whose hair is falling into his eyes. He wants to push it away, linger with his fingertips. The thought makes his breath a little shaky. As usual, once Harry sets his mind to something, everything comes rushing all at once.

”Have dinner with me,” he says before he can chicken out. 

Draco’s face doesn’t change. Perhaps there’s a slight tightening around the eyes. Harry tries not to fidget. 

”What are you doing?” Draco asks. He doesn’t sound suspicious, Harry doesn’t know what he sounds like.

He considers how to answer, and settles on the truth. ”What I want to be doing.”

They look at each other for several moments. Harry can’t read Draco’s face, has no idea what he’s thinking. He considers, for a second, backing out, then Draco is nodding, once, and getting up. 

Under the streetlights, Draco’s hair looks almost golden. He stops awkwardly outside the door as Harry locks it, and neither of them move to start walking once he has. Draco is looking determinedly out at the street. Harry shuffles. Draco refuses to. 

”With the way the temperature drops at night,” Draco says, as if questioning how it _dare_ , ”it’s certainly a good thing I have this coat. I’ll be one of the few people warm in London this winter.”

”Are we talking about the weather?” Harry asks. Draco throws him a cross look.

” _No,_ ” he says, and looks away again. ”We are talking about my _coat_. It’s very nice, you know. Top quality fabric imported from Scandinavia. Monsieur de Garmeaux insists that there’s nothing like it in terms of soft to wear but tough against the elements on the western hemisphere.”

Harry reaches out to lay a hand to Draco’s elbow. The material is soft and warm, and Draco stills completely under his touch. Harry looks up again. Draco’s staring at him. Little snowflakes are sitting in his hair and his cheeks are pink and once, Harry might have though he looked cold and distant. He knows better now. 

He steps a little closer. ”This is nice,” he says, pressing his fingertips against the fabric so he can feel the pointed bone beneath. The air is biting cold around them. Harry hardly cares. 

”It should be, it cost me three hundred galleons.” Draco says, twisting his mouth into that familiar frown, but he doesn’t look away. His arm is tense under Harry’s hand. His hands are shaking a little but then, so are Harry’s. 

Harry smiles a little, ”I didn’t mean the coat.”

The frown falls off him so quick Harry has to wonder whether it was ever really there. He looks nervous, suddenly. Harry takes another step closer. Then Draco says, ”oh, shove off, Potter,” turns of his heel, and starts walking down the street. 

Harry laughs. It’s like there’s a popping foam creature in his chest, and when Draco halts for a second, turns around and raises one perfectly kept eyebrow and says ”Well? Are you coming to dinner or not?” it vibrates happily. He jogs after him, ignores the snotty ”You know, not all of us can spend our days lallygagging around on sundry London streets–” because it stutters to a stop when Harry grabs a hold of his elbow again. Draco’s step falters for just a second, but as Harry continues to walk, so does he. Harry carefully grasps his arm. Draco steps a little closer. Very slowly, he relaxes his arm and curls it so that every few steps, Harry’s knuckles brush against his ribs. 

When he starts talking again, it would take a really good ear to not think he was as casual as can be. 

”So, where exactly are you taking me?” He asks, "With the way you’re dressed, it can’t be any place too nice, we’d be thrown out. If you’re expecting me to eat just about anywhere, I’ll have to disprove that very quickly.”

”I thought we’d go to my place.” Harry stares straight ahead, but doesn’t let his hand falter on Draco’s elbow. Draco twitches. It brings them a step closer. Harry can feel the warmth of him through both their coats now. 

They apparate together and land in Harry’s hallway. Draco takes a step away from him. Harry takes him into the kitchen, his eyes linger on the damp stains on the walls, the dirty dishes in the sink, the crack in one tile close to the oven where Harry dropped a pan last week. He hopes Draco doesn’t see it. 

He drags his hand through his hair, waves the other one around vaguely. ”Yeah, so, here it is.”

Draco looks around and Harry looks at Draco. 

”This is all muggle,” Draco says, walking over to the counter and poking at a bread basket. 

Harry shrugs, ”I was a muggle first, you know.” He walks over to the fridge and opens it. There’s not a lot. Left over cakes from the café, some milk, a couple of boxes of leftovers. He doesn’t want to feel embarrassed, but he thinks about the manor and he is a little.

He does not feel confident about this. He hopes his hair hides how clammy his neck is. 

”I used to sneak into the kitchen when I was a child,” Draco says, and Harry turns to see him. He’s looking at the counter, trailing a hand over it, but seems a mile away. ”I liked to watch the house elves work, all the ingredients floating around the room.”

Harry can see it. A small, blond child with skinny legs staring in wonder. He wants to go to him, wants to hear these things whispered into his ear in the dark.

A small frown appears on Draco’s face. Not his mother’s look, rather like he’s tired. There’s a slump in his shoulders not even the coat can hide.

”Do you want to take off your coat?” Harry asks, wondering why he hadn’t asked back in the hall when he’d taken off his own. 

”Not particularly,” Draco says.

Harry closes the fridge. ”Why is that? You always keep your coat on, I don’t get it.”

Of all things, Draco looks embarrassed. He mumbles something.

”What?”

”I’m wearing the same shirt as yesterday.” Draco’s cheekbones are turning pink. 

Harry’s gut twinges. ”Uh, why?” He asks, not sure he wants to hear. 

Draco still doesn’t look at him, but he sighs irritably. ”I–” He scratches his neck, an awkward behavior Harry had never seen him exhibit before. ”I accidentally vanished all my shirts. I had to get new ones tailored.”

Harry realizes why Draco has been so unwilling to unbutton his coats. He starts laughing and, even pink cheeked, Draco smiles back at him. Without really knowing it, Harry closes the fridge and steps closer. Draco gets that tired frown again, and Harry stops laughing.

”What are you doing, Potter?” He asks.

”I told you.” All the nervousness rushes back in, ”What I want to be doing.”

”And what does that mean.” Draco looks exhausted and wary. 

Harry looks at him, helplessly. He wants to reach out and unbutton Draco’s coat. He wants to push it off his slender shoulders and leave it on the floor.

Draco sighs and rubs his hand over his eyes, ”We can’t. You know we can’t.”

That’s not an _I don’t want to._ ”Why not?” It comes out confrontational.

Draco turns to look out at the kitchen, leaning heavily back against the counter. The slope of his neck is tantalizing. 

”Because I’m me, and you’re you. People will say–”

That hurts a little. ”I spent most of my life doing what other people expected of me.” Harry interrupts, ”What other people needed from me, _groomed me_ to do. To the point where it was the hardest thing in the world to stop and ask myself what I actually wanted. But when I did, it was amazing.” Draco doesn’t look at him, but he’s listening, ”And I did it, I did what I wanted to do, am doing it. What did I get for it? People harassing me in the street, taking my photograph without my knowledge, posting lies in the newspaper, throwing counter spells at me because they think me doing what I want for once is just _so out of character_.” He takes a step closer. He could easily reach out and touch Draco. ”It sucks sometimes. But all those things won’t make me go back to pretending I don’t want what I want. It’s worth it. I–” he pauses, swallows. Ignores the pounding of his heart. ”I think you’d be worth it.”

Draco closes his eyes, ”If this is some attempt at– rebellion–”

”Draco.” He looks up and their eyes meet. Draco stands up straight again, facing him. They’re almost the same height, but Harry has to look slightly up to meet his eyes when they’re this close. 

”You’re serious,” Draco says. It’s not a question.

”I am.”

”Come here.”

Harry does. He cradles those skinny hips in his hands and he moves closer than he's ever been before. Draco’s breath is hot on his cheek for just a second, then they’re kissing.

Their lips catch on each other at first, then they’re sliding softly together and Harry is losing his mind. Draco’s mouth opens against his is a sigh, and Harry _clings_. Nimble fingers find his hair and tugs it roughly out of it’s bun, letting it fall loose around his shoulders. He thinks he hears Draco whisper ’ _Harry’_ and then they’re kissing like they fight. Insistent, teasing, a back and forth that makes his skin buzz.

While he still has courage in his fingertips, he opens Draco’s coat and pushes it off his shoulders. Draco let’s go of him and Harry is scared for a lingering moment, but Draco simply lets the coat fall and then his hands return to Harry’s hair, moving across his neck and over his jaw. His fingers rest so close to where their mouths are pressing together, it feels suddenly far more intimate. 

Harry winds his arms around Draco’s back and pulls him as close as he’ll get. The air rushes out of them both, and when Harry presses his lips under Draco’s jaw, Draco’s fingers clench hard into his skin. 

”Come to bed with me,” Harry whispers. Draco nods, eyes half lidded, his lips seeking out Harry’s again, biting into them. 

They undress at the foot of Harry’s rickety bed. When they’re naked, their eyes meet, and they don’t look away. Harry gets to press Draco into a mattress that squeaks, gets to press his mouth against exposed, vulnerable skin. Someone’s trembling, he’s not sure who. For a moment, they’re warm skin pressed together, mouths and fingers tasting, and then Draco rolls them over, looking down at Harry with shining, pleased eyes and a smug mouth, and Harry laughs.

After that it’s like they’re competing.

Draco’s elbows are sharp, but his hair is soft and his fingers make Harry’s breath come quicker. He wants Draco in his mouth, wants to see what noises he’ll make, how he’ll taste, but Draco seems insistent on draping his heavy frame all over Harry, burrowing his face into his neck and his dick into his hip. Harry tugs on his hair to get him off, and in response, Draco bites him. They’re laughing, and Harry is warm and happy and so hard he’s dizzy with it, so he lets Draco win. He digs his fingers into the flesh of Draco’s arse, puts his mouth close to his ear, and urges him on. 

Draco leans heavily on him, gripping his upper arm in one hand, and they move together. The bed creaks and heat is flooding his veins, pleasure curling in his stomach. When he comes, Draco kisses him and comes too.

They’re laughing again before they can think to do anything else. 

Later, as sweat cools on their skin, they lie face to face, legs tangled together. Draco’s stroking his fingers through the hair at Harry’s temple, nails scratching lightly. Harry almost closes his eyes, but he doesn’t want to miss this look on Draco’s face.

After a long while, Draco whispers, ”What happens tomorrow?”

He doesn’t look worried, just calm. Maybe happy. Harry is.

”I’ll make you tea,” Harry whispers back, ”you’ll call me a slob, and I’ll kiss you in front of everyone. Are you okay with that?”

Draco pauses, Harry trails his fingers over his cheek.

”To hell with it, yes. Yes, let’s do that.”

Harry wraps him close. 

Rita Skeeter comes out of retirement to publish a photograph of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy kissing on the street outside of _Teas and Coffees, Lunar Cycles and Toffees_ , and is subsequently never heard from again.


End file.
